Cold and Alone
by SuperKateB
Summary: It’s all the same, but it’s all different, too, and every day I wake up realizing that you promised, and that I’m cold." (GregGrissom.)


**"Cold and Alone"  
****A CSI Fanfiction  
****Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

You promised, dammit.

All things considered, I only rarely consider myself a bitter person. It takes a good deal of stress, disappointment, anger, and fatigue to bring me to this brink. But the end of my rope has been reached, the last ship has sailed, the straw has broken the camel's back.

Look at me, I'm mixing metaphors. You'd probably correct me were you here right now. But you're not. My apartment is silent and cold, without you. My sheets are never warm, now. I wake up just from rolling over, from shifting into a chilled part of my bed. I wake up shivering, looking for your warmth. In my half-asleep, cold stupor, I don't realize that my groping arm will only find empty mattress and untouched pillows.

And then, when that realization settles in, I curl up and stare out the window, at the Las Vegas dawn. I don't care how beautiful you say the desert is, because nothing is more beautiful than a Las Vegas dawn, the sun glinting against the buildings, shimmering windowpanes and the flashing of natural light against the dimmed, early-morning neon ones.

The sight is awe-inspiring, breath-taking, and I think of you.

Then, of course, there are the times I don't sleep at all. I return home as the sun glints over the horizon and falling asleep is futile, so I watch the world beyond, cuddled in a blanket and seated on a couch, and I think of you.

I always think of you.

You promised. You promised this would be different. This time, my life would be different. But nothing has changed.

And yet, everything has changed.

I dread coming into work, now. For the first time since the accident, all those months ago, the mere thought of that building and those familiar faces makes me physically ill. I dream of staying in bed, watching my backlogged, TiVo-recorded episodes of the O.C. and E.R. and just forgetting about the toils, trails, and tribulations of my job.

But my TiVo still records Nova for you, even weeks after you've stopped coming home.

So I trudge into work, my hands in my pockets, and deal with the smiles and laughter in the locker room. I listen to Nick chatter pleasantly about the pretty girl he met at a bar the other night, or the insensitive slob that tried to pick Cath up while she was waiting for her daughter to get out of school. We part ways as they leave and I settle in, changing out of my casual clothes and into the familiar uniform. My palms sweat and I get jittery. Usually, Sara comes in and has at least one snide comment to toss in my general direction.

"You look just about as comfortable as a cat on a hot tin roof."

"Seen a ghost lately?"

"Hey, what, going to your first middle school dance?"

She never asks what's bothering me, and that's fine. I never tell. Even if I felt comfortable enough in my own skin to tell her, the fact remains that I can't bring myself to break how much she cares about you. She worships you and follows in your footsteps like a puppy. She trusts your judgment, your wisdom. I cannot be the one to break that trust.

You'll have to do it, and I don't doubt you will, someday.

And then, of course, we leave the locker room – sometimes together, sometimes not – and meet with you. You, and your infinite wisdom. You, and your imperviousness. You, and your lies.

You, and your broken promises.

You are one of the best actors I have ever met. You play and pretend as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed, nothing is wrong. You make faces at my bad jokes and joke with Sara; you ask rhetorical questions and refer to me as "Greggo." But I can feel it in your every motion – the excess tension, the fleeting regret in your blue eyes, the way you set your jaw. It's different. It's not the same.

I think Sara knows it too, but she just smiles and says nothing. She doesn't point out the forced nature of my bad jokes, or the edge that sometimes invests your voice. She doesn't ask why you've suddenly started arriving an hour earlier than me, rather than at the same time.

She just smiles, and you smile, and dammit, I smile too.

Remember the first night, Gil? We laid together in my big bed, wound together in the sheets and one another, your fingers playing through my hair as I rested my head on your chest and listened to your heartbeat. The morning sun glinted off the windowpanes and neon lights, orange and gold across the ceiling and floor as we hovered between sleep and waking, curled into one another until I became uncertain where your skin ended and my own began.

"We shouldn't have done this," I finally said, finding my voice. Your fingers stopped. "I always end up hurting someone, or getting hurt. We should just - "

"Do you stop investigating a suspect because he has an alibi the very first time you question him?"

"What?"

I sat up. You smiled up at me, your silvery hair a mess and your blue eyes – so perfectly blue, like a clear Nevada sky – peered up at me. "So you've had a few failed relationships in your life," you replied. Our legs brushed beneath the sheets, and heat trickled through my veins. "So have I. But when you find a good lead – or a good person – you investigate it to its full extent."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Greggo, I'm not going to let this go uninvestigated."

And so, we investigated. Your mouth, my mouth, your feet, my feet, and every inch of skin, forbidden or otherwise, in between. We investigated the fact that Nova comes on right after E.R., and that my cooking is sometimes edible. I promised you that we'd go to California and I would teach you how to surf; you promised me that I would never again wake up cold and alone.

It's 9 a.m. I've barely slept. I'm laying in my bed and staring out at the city, the sun dancing across the windowpanes, the shadows and light playing across my ceiling and floor and the empty spaces between. The coffee pot is brewing fresh coffee – you set it to go off at 7 a.m. instead of p.m. accidentally before you left, and I have yet to reset it – and the scent reminds me of you. Heavy. Musty. Strong, and yet beautiful.

Dammit, Gil, you promised. You promised me no more heartbreak, no more waking up cold, no more being alone.

I idly stare out the window and, for a moment, wonder what Warrick would think if I asked him to switch shifts with me. Then, I realize that it wouldn't matter if I worked swing or graveyard, weekdays or weekends, lab tech or CSI.

It's all the same, now, Gil.

It's all the same, but it's all different, too, and every day I wake up realizing that you promised, and that I'm cold.

**Fin.**

Standard Disclaimer: CSI belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS. Definitely not me.

Author's Notes: Written for a member of the CSISlash community, who posted the words to The Cure's "Promises" and suggested someone write an angsty, sad Greg fic about it. Well, here we are. A Greg/Gil breakup angsty fic. Ah, I feel productive.

Questions, comments, et cetera are always welcome.

March 12, 2005  
7:15 p.m.


End file.
